The evening passed like a nightmare, but I still have a vivid recollection of the account which Sir George Wombwell gave me of his famous ride with the Light Brigade at Balaclava. His horse was shot under him whilst they were charging for the guns, and, being left behind whilst the brigade thundered onward, he was made prisoner by the Russian cavalry, which closed in behind our English horse. His captivity lasted, however, for but a few minutes. The cry was raised that the English were returning from their mad but heroic enterprise, and instantly the Russians scattered and fled. As Lord Cardigan, who was riding in front of the remnant of the shattered brigade, passed Wombwell, he shouted, "Catch a horse, you d--d young fool, and come with us!"--advice which Wombwell promptly took. He found the charger of a Russian officer, and, mounting it, came back in safety with the few survivors of the awful day. That was not, however Wombwell declared, the occasion on which his life had been in greatest peril. Years afterwards, he and Sir Charles Slingsby and a number of the members of the York and Anisty Hunt were crossing the Ouse in a ferryboat, when some of the horses were seized with panic, and the boat was upset. Sir Charles Slingsby and a number of others--twelve, I believe, in all--were drowned, Wombwell being one of the few who escaped. This he regarded as a much more dangerous adventure than the charge of the Light Brigade. Someone at the dinner-table told a story about this tragedy which Wombwell, I thought, hardly liked. The ferry-boat was upset in the river adjoining Sir Charles Slingsby's estate. One of his tenants who had heard of the disaster, and had been told that only one of the baronets had escaped, was hurrying to the scene of the catastrophe, when he met Sir George Wombwell riding home. As soon as the man saw Sir George he flung up his hands, and in accents of dismay cried, "Eh! but they've drowned t'wrang baronet!" On the morning after this dinner, Mr. Husband visited me and inspected my knee. I told him that I meant to stay in bed during the day, but hoped he would allow me to keep an engagement I had made to dine at the Cavalry Barracks in the evening. Eyeing me with great severity, the good surgeon said: "You are a man of intelligence, or at least you ought to be, considering the position you hold. You must surely know that you have met with an injury that will keep you in bed for weeks, at least." And he hinted, not obscurely, that still worse things than prolonged confinement to bed would certainly befall me if I did not take the greatest care of my injured leg. So there ended all my hopes of a pleasant holiday. The next day I was taken back to Leeds in a state of absolute helplessness, and, being got to bed in my own house, had to remain there for nine mortal weeks.